“She’s supposed to have a look of my father,” said Cory. “That’s what people say. I can’t remember, and my mother doesn’t keep any photos.”

I studied the painting again, searching for Cory himself, but there wasn’t a trace in all that powdery pallor.

“Your father . . . ?” I ventured.

“Died when I was thirteen.”

“Oh,” I glanced at him. “My mum died when I was five.”

Cory’s grip tightened on my hand, but I wasn’t sure if it was just a tic, or if he meant something by it.

“She had cancer,” I added with an awkward shrug, and he turned his face a fraction toward mine.

“My father drowned,” he said. “He took his sailing boat out . . .”

I waited for him to finish the sentence, but he never did.

“Do you miss him?”

Cory hesitated and cleared his throat.

“No . . . I don’t know. My father wasn’t really a kind man but I suppose I loved him, in some strange way. I expect your mother was a good person, wasn’t she? I expect you miss her?”

“Yes. I don’t remember her very well, but yes.”

We stood side by side, contemplating Lady Caroline, and this time when he squeezed my hand I knew it was deliberate. It felt wrong—being so happy, I mean, in the wake of such a sad exchange—but I couldn’t help it. I’d have squeezed his hand in reply if I could, but my fingers were trapped inside his, and I couldn’t so much as wiggle my thumb.

“My world has shrunk so much since Stella died,” I said. It didn’t quite follow from what we’d been talking about, but it seemed to make sense to Cory.

“Mine too,” he said, “since I grew up, and my mother fell ill, and life stopped looking so . . .”

“. . . so promising.”

“Yes.”

The thing that made me happy—ludicrously happy—was the way we went into the garden without discussion, as if we had one mind between us. Cory didn’t say, “Would you think I was weird if I suggested going outside right now?” and I didn’t say, “Hang on, it’s dark and wet out there and I’m not wearing any shoes.” We just went, strolling at first, then walking quickly, then running.

There was a moon, and the fiery gold garden I remembered from the wedding had been reconstructed in silver and black. I didn’t notice the gravel under my bare feet, but I did notice the sodden grass, and the soil between my toes, and my hand growing warm inside his.

We went to the canopy, where there were no tables or chairs anymore—only a carpet of muddled shadows, and a faint dripping sound, and canvas walls that glowed pearl grey in the moonlight. We stopped in the middle of the floor, and I thought he was going to kiss me, but even though he put both hands on my waist and turned me to face him, and even though we drew so close that I couldn’t see anything except the vaguest impression of his lips, he stopped short and smiled instead. You’re teasing me, I thought—only this time it didn’t worry me; it made me glad.